Chapter 5 - The Girl Who Quit
Jenna Price lived fifteen minutes away in a small brick house with a basketball hoop over the garage and curtains drawn in every downstairs window.
Emma did not go there that night.
She called first.
Jenna’s mother answered and nearly hung up when Emma said Brightwood.
Then Emma mentioned the old video.
Silence.
“Come tomorrow,” Mrs. Price said.
Jenna was fourteen now.
She opened the front door wearing sweatpants and a knee brace.
The first thing Emma noticed was how carefully she walked.
The second was the framed dance photos on the wall turned face down.
Jenna sat at the kitchen table with her mother beside her.
“I don’t want my name online,” she said.
“It won’t be unless you say so.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
Jenna studied Emma for a long moment.
Then she said, “Brooke didn’t break my ankle.”
Emma waited.
“She just made sure I was too scared to tell anyone when it happened.”
Jenna explained the winter intensive.
Brooke had hidden her warm-up clothes, poured water into her dance bag, and spread rumors that Jenna smelled bad. Then, during a partner exercise, she deliberately switched Jenna’s floor marker.
Jenna landed too close to a portable barre.
Her ankle snapped.
“Did Ms. Vale know?” Emma asked.
Jenna laughed bitterly. “She yelled at me for not controlling my landing.”
Mrs. Price pushed a document across the table.
Brightwood had offered to refund the remaining tuition on one condition: the family signed a nondisparagement agreement.
Emma read it twice.
“This was for a kid?”
“My husband thought we should sign,” Mrs. Price said. “We were drowning in medical bills.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Jenna looked toward the turned-down photos.
“They started telling people I was unstable. That I had panic attacks. That my injury was because I wasn’t strong enough for advanced work.”
Emma’s jaw tightened.
“Do you still have messages?”
Jenna hesitated.
Then she pulled out an old phone.
“Some.”
There were dozens.
Texts from Brooke.
Miss me, cripple?
Maybe try chess.
Tell your mommy to stop blaming me.
Then a screenshot of a group chat.
Brooke: MOM SAID GRANT WILL HANDLE IT LIKE LAST TIME.
Emma stared at those words.
“Like last time?”
Jenna nodded.
“I never knew what she meant.”
A car door slammed outside.
Jenna’s mother looked through the blinds.
Her face went white.
“What?” Emma asked.
May you like
Mrs. Price stepped back from the window.
“Vivian Sanders is in my driveway.”
